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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553466">how could something so bad look so damn good?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FereldenTurnip/pseuds/FereldenTurnip'>FereldenTurnip</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020), Trust (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:35:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,424</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553466</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FereldenTurnip/pseuds/FereldenTurnip</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Listen, Joe knows he’s a good looking man. So when he dials up the charm an extra notch and only gets a raised eyebrow out of Nicky, well… Joe doesn’t <i>pout</i>, per se. But it’s a close thing. </p><p>In Italian (flawless Roman accent, too), Nicky drawls, “Can I help you?” </p><p>Joe blinks. Blinks a few times, in fact. Then it clicks. <i>Okay</i>, so Nicky wants to play That Game, eh? <br/>---<br/>It's the spring of 1973. Rome, Italy. Joe has been flying solo for months when he finally reunites with Nicky. Or, someone he believes is Nicky...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Primo Nizzuto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>469</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>how could something so bad look so damn good?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note this is a CRACK FIC! Primo Nizzuto is a character played by Luca Marinelli from the series 'Trust'. I've done my best to keep his character accessible for folks who aren't familiar with the show. </p><p>I want to thank my two lovely betas: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckyc10/profile">beckyc10</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaerith/profile">Kaerith</a>. They were extremely helpful in so many fantastic ways! Also, shout out to the Joe/Nicky Discord server for cheering this filth on.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Spring of 1973. It was 3:32 pm on a Tuesday. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Italy. Rome, to be more precise. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And what a </span>
  <em>
    <span>shitty </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tuesday it turned out to be, if Joe felt like complaining. Which he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not only did he lose his luggage on the train ride into Italy, some loud-mouthed business tycoon knocked his hot espresso on his new chinos. Fate must be laughing at him because he’s also had his pockets picked three times now. Yet his partner, his husband, the one person willing to listen to his diatribe (and also protect his poor pockets from tiny, thieving hands) wasn’t with him. No one was.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>In a strange turn of events, he’s without the team this time. Alone. Solo. They all made separate exits out of Vietnam mere months ago--better safe than sorry, Andy said. Booker was the first to go, he needed no coaxing. Joe suspects anyone out for revenge need only follow the trail of empty brandy bottles all the way back to Europe. Out of all of them, the war affected the Frenchman the worst. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>As Booker ditched them like his ass was on fire, Andy turned to the hardest task of her life: separating Joe and Nicky. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the phrase “Joe and Nicky” said it all. There’s not one without the other (draw a large heart around their names because they’re a two-for-one deal, and the return receipt was lost somewhere in the Holy Lands circa the 11th century). Andy practically bludgeoned them into separating with the butt of her labrys. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The last Joe saw of his dear Nicoló was through the tiny window of a beat-up Soviet cargo plane somewhere in Đắk Lắk. He remembered it as clear as a polaroid picture, or better yet, a romantic noir film. Nicky standing on the tarmac in the pouring rain, hands buried beneath an oversized poncho, stoic as the engines whirred to life to take Joe far, far away--</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>he looked like an angry, waterlogged kitten. His hair was plastered to his skull because he’d left his hat somewhere (Nicky lost hats like he lost bets with Booker--read: all the time). His jaw kept ticking, a classic Nicky indicator of internal emotional distress. The plane leapt away into the air, destination Kiev, and Nicky dissolved into a watery blur (though the crying might have played a not-so-insignificant role there). </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>three months ago</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They agreed to reconvene in Rome any day now. Hopefully this day. It might become the catalyst in redeeming this terrible Tuesday.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe twirled and darted around the bustling stalls and crowds of tourists and locals alike through the throng of the Campo de’ Fiori. He passed the somber statue of Giodarno Bruno (interesting guy--they used to talk poetry and planets together). He wasn’t there for his death, but he helped hoist his statue up then stuck around long enough to see the subsequent burning of de Dominis. And before all that, Joe had had the unpleasant experience of witnessing the Rosh Hashanah fires…</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Side-note: what is it with Italians and fire? Seriously? Even Nicky gets this odd twinkle in his eyes whenever a building goes up in smoke or Booker detonates a round of explosives. Nicky was particularly </span>
  <em>
    <span>wild </span>
  </em>
  <span>after the advent of blackpowder. That thing he does with his tongue and a rammer rod…</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving on!</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>(It’s been three months, okay?)</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes it to the other side of the square where the market promptly spits him out in front of a café. It’s run down enough to turn the tourists away, yet familiar enough to keep the locals coming back. But he’s still penniless and destitute. Maybe the owner will take pity on him and let him have a glass of water?</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s bright inside, courtesy of the large windows. Sunlight is bouncing off the linoleum tiled floors and fake vinyl wainscoting. The average customer ranges from his late thirties to early sixties, all various shades of the same greased back hair. There are enough lit cigarellos; they've practically created their own mini ozone layer. Yeah, he’s definitely in Rome.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They casually turn their heads as the door chimes at Joe’s arrival. They stare of course, curious at best and skeptical at worst. Ultimately, they go back to minding their own business. They’re on the path of the </span>
  <span>Via Papale</span>
  <span>, new faces don’t hold their interest for long. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s in the process of flagging down the reedy man behind the counter for some water when he spots him. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nicky</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s kismet. Honestly, Joe didn’t believe he’d get lucky on his first outing. Has Fate finally taken her boot out of his backside?</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky steals Joe’s breath completely (not that he never does--Joe is perpetually breathless and star-struck when it comes to his husband). It’s been so long but there he is, sitting at a table by himself in a corner of the room. He’s got a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other (didn’t he quit a few decades back? Oh well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>when in Rome...</span>
  </em>
  <span>). It’s suave, it’s blasé. It’s, well, the mustache is definitely new. Oh, but he could definitely grow to like it, maybe if Nicky rubs it along his--</span>
  <em>
    <span>focus, Yusuf! </span>
  </em>
  <span>His lungs are starting to protest the lack of air.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a breath only to have it punched out again when he gets a gander at his outfit. He’s dressed in tight--so tight they have to be painted on--powder blue bell bottoms and matching polo. A supple leather jacket completes the handsome look. Shit, when did he get those? And, more importantly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>how?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Joe’s always had to cajole a fussing Nicky into posh clothing (the Rococo period was The Worst). </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Is Nicky trying his best to impress? Because, hello, yes. It. Is. Working. His legs are so weak, Joe’s afraid they’ll give out so he props himself (casually, nonchalantly, the opposite of a mess) against the counter. He barely registers the glass of water pushed in front of him, nonetheless he’s pulling gulp after gulp without ever taking his eyes off Nicky.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He drains the glass. His mouth is still dry.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>(Three long, miserable, months. Just thousands of cherished memories and the company of his right hand.) </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He wiggles his toes, makes sure they're functioning, and saunters up to the lone table where Nicky’s practically poured himself into a chair. The barkeep might be saying something except Joe’s already a world away.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Listen, Joe knows he’s a good looking man. Disregarding the coffee stain on his knee, Joe is impeccably dressed in the latest fashion. He’s got notes of yellow to compliment his bronze skin and highlight his deep brown eyes (</span>
  <em>
    <span>“My hayati,” Nicky purrs as he presses himself along his front and proceeds to get very lost in said eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span>). He’s even wearing a flashy pair of red crocodile-skin boots.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t the muse of dozens of Renaissance artists simply for his daring poetry (though, he got invited to countless soirées keen on hearing the latest al-Kaysani erotica). His coiffed hair is long enough to get those thin, flamboyant little curls Nicky loves caressing. That, plus the fact he’s ditched his beard makes him look the part of dashing rogue celebrity. It makes his smarmy grin stand out and turn heads. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>So when he dials up the charm an extra notch and only gets a raised eyebrow out of Nicky, well… Joe doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>pout</span>
  </em>
  <span>, per se. But it’s a close thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>In Italian (flawless Roman accent, too), Nicky drawls, “Can I help you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe blinks. Blinks a few times, in fact. Then it clicks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so Nicky wants to play That Game, eh? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones: two strangers meeting for the first time before hooking up for a filthy one-night stand? The names change according to the century, but the rules stay the same. First one to break character has to do it on hands and knees. It’s been three months since they’ve seen, spoken, and touched each other. Nicky’s caved from lesser separations. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe smirks, squaring himself up for the win. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” Joe replies in Italian as he commandeers the opposite chair. His tone is half professional formality, half coy promises. “I was hoping you could help </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The name’s Giuseppe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky’s strangely silent for a beat. He takes a long drag of his cigarette while eyeing Joe up and down. They hover over his arms and legs. Joe may or may not flex. Merely for effect, not because he’s cheating. The air around their table is thickening with tension and it’s not the tobacco smoke to blame. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky purses his lips beneath that new moustache of his. He raises his little white cup, eyes narrowing at Joe from over the rim (they’re an odd shade of blue-grey in this fluorescent lighting). </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Giuseppe,” he says after a sip of coffee. His lips pop around the ‘p’ then drag out the last vowel. Like he’s savouring a fine wine. “Giuseppe. Nice to meet you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Giuseppe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” His lips wrap around the cigarette for a long drag that hollows his cheeks and, no, Joe’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>jealous of a cigarette!</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“My name is Primo,” Nicky says. Okay, that’s a new one too. It’s usually </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nate</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nixon</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or one, very humorous, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bobby</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He stamps out the dead butt into a chipped ashtray. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Primo,” said Joe. Nicky’s impressive micro-expressions falter momentarily at the word ‘pleasure’. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Almost had you there, Nicky boy.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“To tell you the truth, Giuseppe,” Primo casually switches gears. He sounds almost bored. “You don’t look like the sort of man in need of assistance.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? And why’s that?” Joe asks, genuinely interested. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re dressed like a lost little trust-fund baby, kicked out of the house by daddy,” Primo snickers into his coffee. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe smiles serenely. He waits until Primo is mid-sip before quipping, “Since I’m running to you for help, who does that make you? My daddy?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It works exactly as expected--Primo fumbles as he practically inhales his coffee. Now he’s sporting a delightful pink blush on those sharp cheekbones of his. Joe mentally congratulates himself for putting it there. The other man just glares at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen,” Joe says as he crosses his legs, “I’ve been struck by a miserable streak of misfortune. Until my usual contacts arrive, I need a hand getting myself back on my feet. I’ll pay you back? Favour for a favour?” He bats his eyes.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Primo acquiesces, both hands held up in surrender. “I do suppose it’s… </span>
  <em>
    <span>fortuitous</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as it just so happens I could use an extra set of hands. There’s a job--”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The old barkeep decides now’s as good a time as any to interrupt their steamy tête-à-tête. He stomps over and demands Joe pay for the water (who charges for a glass of water, seriously?). Joe has an excuse on the tip of his tongue, but Nicky beats him to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Easy, Antonio,” he says, casually waving him away without even a glance. “He’s with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Antonio the Old Barkeep’s jowls quiver before he apologizes and scuttles away. Joe’s mouth closes with an audible click. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Huh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Just how long has Nicky been in Rome?  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a job,” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Primo</span>
  </em>
  <span> continues like the previous exchange never occurred. “It pays well but I can never find competent work around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe relaxes into his chair, mirroring Primo’s languid body language. “I’m competent. Plus discreet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo hesitates momentarily. “Let’s say I know some old friends who currently have something that doesn’t belong to them,” He says. Oh, they’re playing The Game </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>pulling jobs as a couple? Is it Joe’s birthday?? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Discussing contracts in public is familiar territory. Joe speaks the language as fluently as any other. So, bad people have their hands on something dangerous. ‘Old friends’? Potentially someone they’ve burned before? That’s super risky for just the two of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“They take your garden tools?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Weapons smuggling?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“More like, borrowed my uncle’s snow-white porcelain.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>They’re running drugs.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The ‘uncle’ is a nice, albeit wacky piece of improv.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we ask them nicely to return them. When are we paying them a visit?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>What’s our window of opportunity?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be finished before bedtime.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>This needs to be handled by tonight.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe tsks, “Short notice might upset them. I’m assuming you have a restaurant picked out?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>What’s the location?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m craving something rustic. Away from the city.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>The countryside</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not a lot to go on. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many friends are we expecting at the table?” This one’s obvious. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three. They’re having car troubles,” Primo’s eyes glint. “I thought we’d pick them up on the way.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>We ride together and hit them unaware.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, a standard retrieval op,” Joe says. “So long as everything goes according to plan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve done my due-diligence,” Primo replies. It’s obvious he’s impressed with Joe. He chuckles, dark and velvet-like, “You’ll find I’m anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>but </span>
  </em>
  <span>standard, Signor Giuseppe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s Joe’s turn to blush. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo asks, “Then that settles it?” Turnabout is fair play in this pleasant, simmering game of theirs. People underestimate how manipulative the little shit across from him can get. Joe sees the hook dangling beneath the surface of Primo’s heavy-lidded gaze. Honestly, out of the two of them Nicky’s always been the better fisherman. His wells of patience run deep and eternal. Beneath all that is a small stream of chaos that Joe can intermittently coax into flooding. If that means Joe gets swept up in the current, then he’s happy to drown for his Nicoló. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe smiles wryly and holds his hand out to seal the deal. He can’t resist brushing a finger along Primo’s pulse point. He plays it off as an accident but there’s no fooling each other--Joe clearly felt a flutter in his heartbeat at the brief touch. He’s unsure how long they’ll last, or who will break first (it’ll be Nicky, Joe’s adamant about that), but it’ll be one heck of a wild ride. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo beckons Joe with a jerk of his head that shakes his long brown locks. Joe’s fingers itch to fist the strands tightly, to expose his neck and saturate his jaw in open-mouthed kisses. They part and stand in unison before tracking through the kitchen and out the café’s back door. Joe finds himself in a cramped alleyway removed from curious tourists. This must be where the everyday workers park and trudge along to their shops. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He leads them to a squat burgundy Alfetta. At first glance it’s obvious the little car has seen its fair share of rugged adventure. Primo unlocks the driver’s side and leans over the centre console to open the passenger door for Joe. Hopping in, he’s pleased to note the meticulously clean interior. Closing the doors seals them off from the hustle and bustle of the outside world. The sudden silence amplifies the excitement brewing between the two men.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Primo</span>
  </em>
  <span> pulls a silver snuff box from somewhere in his leather jacket. It’s filled with a couple grams of cocaine. The sight sends Joe into a laughing fit, his smile surely leaving deep-set dimples into his cheeks. Where the hell did Nicky get blow? Nevermind, it’s a stupid question given the decade. He’s already dabbing some out on his pinky and offering it to Joe. First dibs too, how polite! </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn’t the first time they’ve done drugs together and probably won’t be the last. Hashish in Istanbul. Opium in Toulon. LSD in California. Their first taste of cocaine was three-hundred years ago. They had to chew the leaves to get to the stimulant. Mortals have certainly refined it since then. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>After the shit-show in Vietnam, Joe believes they’ve earned a respite. Conscientious of the game they’re still playing, Joe leans over the console, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gently </span>
  </em>
  <span>grips his wrist and inhales. All the while he makes sure his eyes are boring into Primo’s. He leans back into the passenger seat, clearing his nose with a couple sniffs. He can’t help whooping. Wherever its source, this is good shit. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo wets his bottom lip, his eyes narrowed. He brings his pinky to his lips and cleans it with a swirl of his tongue. He then takes a fresh hit for himself. Joe suspects it isn’t the drugs making their faces flush. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The ignition starts and they pull out of the alleyway, out of Rome entirely. The rest of the ride is a colourful whirlwind as the drugs hit his system. They’re cruising at high speeds in this piece of shit car, windows rolled down to let the spring breeze ruffle their hair. The tang of summer is right around the corner. They’re both singing along to some sexy Italian song blasting on the radio at full volume.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Primo</span>
  </em>
  <span>--</span>
  <b>
    <em>Nicky</em>
  </b>
  <span>--</span>
  <b>UGH!</b>
  <span>--he’s wild and unadulterated. Joe’s salivates at the thought of pulling this car over so he can suck him off right then and there. Mouth and lap at his bulge until he puts a wet patch over the straining polyester. Then peel those blue-blue trousers down his hip bones and wrap his lips around him. Joe’d coax him into leaking hardness while urging him forward with a harsh grip on his ass.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Basterebbe una carezza</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” the woman’s voice on the radio croons. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Per un cuore di ragazza, forse allora sì--che t'amerei!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And fuck--Primo must be </span>
  <em>
    <span>telepathic </span>
  </em>
  <span>because he’s got a similar gleam in his manic eyes. He takes a hand off the wheel and lands it possessively high (hot and heavy like a brand) on Joe’s thigh. There’s a growl escaping unbidden from Joe’s throat. It’s wanton, Joe knows this. He widens his legs anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo’s hand dips further in at the invitation. He lets his pinky draw half-circles and skirt the edge of Joe’s straining cock. It’s pure torture not to thrust up and seek friction. Instead, Joe casually drapes his hand over the back of Primo’s seat. His fingers tease the warm strip of skin peeking between his curtain of hair and jacket collar. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither one dares go any further. They’re anticipating the submission of the other. It’s a sultry stalemate of their own making. The car’s engine continues to purr down the winding roads ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Un vento freddo, come le foglie le speranze butta giù! Ma questa vita cos'è se manchi tu!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun is setting and bathing the rolling countryside in burnt gold when Primo decides they’ve reached their destination. Joe vaguely remembers passing Naples hours ago (most of the journey is lost in a lust-filled haze). They’d switched out the main highway for a service road about nine or ten kilometers ago. It’s barely wide enough to fit one car but Primo parks right in the middle of it as if he owns it. They’re hidden behind a strategic bend in the road: no one will see them until it’s too late.   </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There are ditches filled with shrubs on either side, too dense that Joe needn’t worry about potential lurkers. Tall cypress trees dot the distant landscape and frame a backdrop of mountains. All and all there are no signs of civilization as far as the eye can see. Joe scratches his stubbly chin, he has no damn clue where they are. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo hops out of the car and leisurely stretches. He’s lighting a cigarette when Joe joins him to... admire the view. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Standing next to Nicky--er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Primo</span>
  </em>
  <span>--Joe can fully appreciate the new wardrobe. Those pants leave nothing to the imagination. Joe’s absolutely hypnotized by his husband’s thick thighs and fantastic ass. A vision of bending him over the hood and biting into those pert buttocks dances merrily inside his mind’s eye. He has to physically shake his head to clear it away. He really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>wants to win this game.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s startled to discover Primo has been watching him </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch him</span>
  </em>
  <span> this whole time. It’s with a raised, taunting eyebrow and arms akimbo to frame that trim waist of his. Smoke curls around his head like a halo. Not one for shyness, Joe ducks his head coquettishly and wets his lips. The other man leans forward a fraction of an inch, eyes zeroed in on Joe’s mouth (again, they’ve spent hours trapped in a car, blue-balled and eye-fucking each other).  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>In a blink, Primo straightens and pivots away, clearly flustered. Joe reels his metaphorical line in--he’ll catch him sooner or later. Primo rounds the car to the trunk where he’s stashed a worn canvas satchel inside. It contains a long-range rifle. It’s well-cared for despite the fact Joe’s never seen Nicky with that particular model. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice piece.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo grunts.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m uh, more of a shotgun man, myself,” Joe says cockily. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo clears the chamber with expertise. He’s looking up at Joe from beneath that soft fringe of his. “Mmm,” he sucks his teeth. “They’re messy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like messy,” Joe confides, like it’s a dirty secret. He’s leaning against the side of the car with his arms crossed. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo huffs out a sharp laugh. Well, more like a bark. A second later he’s slithering into Joe’s personal space, right between his legs. He rests his rifle over one broad shoulder, takes his cigarette and offers the rest to Joe. It’s almost halfway smoked. If he closes his eyes, Joe can almost taste the other man when he takes a drag. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>For a solitary moment, he worries Nicky’s going to win. He certainly isn’t making this easy. It takes every ounce of strength to calm himself. He forces his breath to slow, makes his smile placid. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Primo</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is staring at Joe’s collarbones when he pulls a handgun from the small of his back where it’s undoubtedly been kissing the curve of his ass this entire time. He passes it grip first to Joe (who is short-circuiting because </span>
  <em>
    <span>where the hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> was he hiding that in </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> tight pants??).</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“No shotguns. Will this do instead, Giuseppe?” Primo asks sardonically. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe clicks his tongue in the affirmative. He’s wrapping his fingers around the gun but Primo doesn’t let it go just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You put your finger here,” he caresses Joe’s index finger until it’s nestled over the trigger. “And you squeeze it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s the cocktail of coke and nicotine swirling in his bloodstream that’s morphing Joe’s smile into something lethal. He nods ever so slightly and assures, “Don’t worry, I’m good at fingering a hairpin trigger.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A smirk. Then, “We shall see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of them make no attempt to part. They are caught in each other’s orbit by gravity. The breeze has Primo’s hair whispering against Joe’s cheek. His steel-blue eyes are molten hot. Joe widens his stance, lets Primo sink further into his atmosphere. He smells like gunpowder and tobacco, of sunbaked Italian leather. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe continues to puff on his cigarette. He juts his chin out and squares his shoulders, draws himself to his fullest height. The action forces Primo to tilt his head up if he wants to maintain eye contact. It wouldn’t take much to hook a finger through one of Primo’s belt loops and tug him until their hips meet. They are a pool of gasoline waiting for the match to ignite. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are,” Primo says with a hint of wonder, “the strangest man I ever met.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s… a bizarre thing to say and totally unexpected. Joe’s about to retort (something pithy and excessively sexual) when the tell-tale sound of an automobile ambles down the road. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo springs away. The moment is gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>While his back is turned, Joe takes the opportunity to tuck the handgun away and will his half-hard dick down. He can’t help but admire Nicky’s dedication to the ruse. Primo schools his face into blank detachment, so Joe extends the same courtesy and shifts into some semblance of professionalism. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been longing for so long (Three. Months) that he’s almost forgotten about the job. A black car is zipping its way towards them, disappearing behind curves in the road and blissfully unaware of what’s in store. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Joe hopes his voice doesn’t shake. “Is that our party of three?” He stamps out the cigarette with the heel of his boot. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm,” Primo unhelpfully replies. Joe’s about to ask what’s next, however Primo is too busy hopping onto the roof of his little Alfetta. His gaze is trained on the other car, more of a speck really, when he shoulders his rifle and aims it. That’s, uh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hot</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He uses the scope to track the target, his aim smooth and hands steady. A single shot echoes along the hills and sends birds scattering. Nicky never misses. He’s expecting the sound of a burst tire, not ruptured glass. The break is followed by the squealing of wheels and a booming crash. The continuous blare from the horn tells him there’s a corpse laid out over the steering wheel. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Whoa</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s spent innumerable missions next to Nicky, a tandem team through the thick of blood and battle. Joe’s spotted for him while Nicky’s taken the heads off of guards and outlaws alike. There’s a subconscious part of Joe (the part with a direct connection to his dick) that thrills every time Nicky executes an expert, one-hit shot.   </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Heedless of Joe’s awestruck state, Primo jumps from the roof and pockets the discarded shell. He sets a jaunty trek down the road, looking back at Joe expectantly. He whistles sharply, “Come along then!” Like a dog following the heels of its master, Joe skips after him. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Come, sit, stay!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Joe thinks he’d roll over and display his belly if Primo called him a good boy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They march in tandem until reaching the crash site. The car itself is nose-deep in a ditch and vaguely smoking. The windshield is pierced and fractured in a web of cracks. Sure enough, some unfortunate soul is slumped over the dashboard. Joe busies himself with tugging the body off the horn--there, blessed silence! The two men still on their list are valiantly attempting to crawl away in the dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s expecting… well, Joe’s not entirely sure what he expected. Usually it’s beefy übermenscher clad in dark leather and nasty expressions. The kind who obviously look like they beat their wives and drown little animals for fun. On closer inspection they appear to be one bedraggled old man and a scrawny lad barely into his twenties. Dazed, bruised, and sore but no worse for wear. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re completely unfamiliar to Joe who, despite being nearly a thousand years old, can usually recall an enemy’s face. If the Old Guard has had dealings with small-time Sicilian mobsters in the last century, these two aren’t triggering any memories. It all sort of rubs him the wrong way, then again he’s seen lesser folk commit heinous acts of violence before. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The older of the two is reaching for the waistband of his pants. Joe already has his borrowed handgun out and primed to discourage such an act. Inklings or not, he’s not interested in spitting out bullets, nor watching Nicky’s skin break and knit closed. Not today. It’s still </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tuesday</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo brandishes his rifle too, even though it’s rather useless at point-blank range.  “Ah-ah,” Primo tuts. “Hands out front. Giuseppe, take their weapons.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe does as he’s told, patting the men down with practised efficiency. He confiscates two guns and a carving knife, which he delivers directly to Primo. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fabio Pesci!” Primo smiles toothily in greeting. He admires one of the guns in the setting sun. Joe can’t help noticing the sadistic gleam in his eyes, at how it marrs Nicky’s otherwise kindly face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I was wondering when you would find us,” the older man, Fabio, rages. “Surprised it’s taken you so long to sniff us out. You always were a bloodthirsty little mutt!”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“And who is this with you? Hmm?” Primo ignores him. He cocks his head playfully at the other captive of theirs. “How low the Fratellis have fallen if they must resort to using little boys for their dirty work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a man, you cock-sucking son of a whore!” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Fabio hisses furiously, “Shut it, Enzo!”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Whereas Fabio is obviously the grizzled crime veteran, Enzo is young and hot-tempered. His eyes cast about wildly between what’s left of his crew, the car, Primo and Joe. Undeniably the new recruit. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Primo turns his nose towards Enzo.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enzo… You’re Lucia’s nephew, no?” It’s not so much a question as stating a fact. When Enzo doesn’t answer, Primo leisurely fiddles with Fabio’s pistol, finger poised to shoot and not giving a damn where it’s aimed. It’s sufficient enough to rouse Enzo into talking. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-yes!” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Lucia! She makes the most wonderful biscotti,” Primo prattles in delight at the… memory? Joe frowns. Who is Lucia and when has Nicky ever had her biscotti? Something in Joe’s gut starts to shift. It has to be the cocaine. Yeah… that’s it, the drugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you tell me where the drugs are hidden, perhaps you shall continue to enjoy your dear Aunt’s baking,” Primo says. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Enzo arrogantly says, “We already sold it!” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo’s eye twitches. He mockingly cups a hand around one ear. “I beg your pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard me! Sold it! In Naples. You can’t take it back because there’s nothing left--”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Fabio snaps, “Enzo, for the love of your mother--”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we shall take what is owed us. That package was worth, what, six thousand? That kind of money is sorely missed by my starving village, Signor Pesci,” Primo says. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck your village! What about </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Fabio cries, “You frolic with the Neapolitans, you get wasted in Roma. Yet you have the audacity to talk to me about the plight of the poor? You don’t deserve a lire! None of you do!” Primo’s jaw ticks. Joe’s completely lost at this point. He has no idea when the conversation, this whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>day</span>
  </em>
  <span>, spiraled so far out of his control. Scratch that, it was the moment he left Nicky in Vietnam… He’s catching on to the fact slowly, but steadily. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you see, you can take your biscotti and shove them up Don Salvatore's sagging arse! I won’t give you shit!” Fabio spits at Primo’s feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Primo’s nose wrinkling in distaste is the only warning any of them receive. One second he’s holding Fabio’s looted pistol and the next Enzo’s screaming through a face smattered in ruby-red blood. Fabio’s body slumps over like a marionette with its strings cut. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Centuries of fighting, killing, and dying alongside Nicky keeps Joe from jumping. It does nothing for the cold shock that follows. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This isn’t happening… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Without missing a beat, Primo turns his attention back on Enzo. “Quiet,” he says with an air of command. Enzo, wisely, ceases his hysterics. “You’re going to tell us where you hid the money or you’ll end up like Fabio here. Understand?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Enzo’s eyes immediately widen and he vehemently shakes his head. He gasps, “You c-can’t be serious!” Even Joe’s staring at Primo as if he’s suddenly sprouted a second head. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>In a flash, Primo is hovering over the young man. He whispers menacingly, “I must not be making myself clear. You backwater peasants couldn’t have spent thousands of lira in just a few days. I will take my money back or I will send Lucia little pieces of you. Your ears, your fingers, your toes, whatever it takes.” Enzo justifiably whimpers. Joe holds his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now,” Primo straightens. “Where is my money?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nicky</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Joe swears, this time in English. He’s mopping frantically at the sweat dotting his brow. “This has gone on long enough! You win!” He throws down his shovel in defeat. He’s spent the last thirty minutes or so digging a grave for poor Enzo. All he’s managed so far is half a metre deep. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re at a random farmhouse a scant few kilometres from where they left Fabio’s car burning (along with Fabio and the anonymous driver inside it). The would-be mobster Enzo didn’t last long once he pointed out an old chicken feed barrel behind the barn. Inside it contained a leather satchel filled with the missing money. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Between the hushed drive to the farm (laughably opposite to the joyous romp out of Rome), to the moment Primo tossed him the shovel, Joe’s reasonably convinced he’s in over his head. Yet, there’s still a shred of hope left that Nicky’s screwing with him. That this is just some ultra-elaborate stunt (maybe revenge for that thing with the crocodiles in Cairo) and Nicky’s going to shout ‘got you!’ at any moment. Yep…. any damn moment. This moment in particular would be ideal.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That moment never occurs. Instead, what happens is this:</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky is lugging forward a gas canister, the same one he used to douse his rivals with. He halts to catch his breath and scrunch his face at Joe. He asks, “Cosa?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe repeats himself. Primo is still confused. “Cosa hai detto?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He frantically exclaims in Italian, “Knock it off already, Nicky! I said you won!”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who the fuck is Nicky?” Primo--and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--Oh fuck, oh fuck, OH FUCK his name is </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span>--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Primo</span>
  </em>
  <span>--cocks his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The click that goes off in his head is more akin to a detonated bombshell, shrapnel and all. It’s like stepping on a landmine all over again, except this time he won’t reanimate in his husband’s loving arms. The ground definitely shifts beneath his feet and he unconsciously braces against ejection. His organs might as well be strewn in the trees overhead for all the shock he’s currently in. Can a man die from horrific embarrassment alone?  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>(If this man is Primo, then where the fuck is Nicky?)</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a standoff as both men face each other down. Primo has Fabio’s pistol in his hand. Joe’s is still tucked away in his belt. He’s clearly at a disadvantage.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Primo sighs. “Such a pity,” he says with devastating disappointment. “I was hoping we would end this evening somewhere in a bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe gulps. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve made a terrible mistake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joe!” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s slumped over with exhaustion on some counter in a random bar (way, way on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>side of Rome). Shoot-outs, shallow graves, and a shit-tonne of coke will do that to you. Especially when said shallow graves were your own. Primo was a Grade A bastard, but in the end he couldn’t kill a man wearing his husband’s face. At least he was kind enough not to burn him </span>
  <em>
    <span>completely </span>
  </em>
  <span>before burying him. Maybe he’d made an impression after all? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe even found enough lire hidden away in Enzo’s boot to cover a change of clothes and a glass of bourbon. Which he was currently attempting to drown in. Oh, Booker would be proud. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Joe!” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. He looks like his Nicoló. He even </span>
  <em>
    <span>sounds </span>
  </em>
  <span>like him. This Nicky (warm sea-green eyes, that heart-melting smile, the graceful way he moved) walks right up to Joe and kisses both his cheeks in typical Italian greeting (his kisses lingering just long enough to skirt the boundaries of casual acquaintances). He pulls away and Joe can almost feel the heat from his gaze, like he’s being undressed with his eyes. He shivers, and not necessarily in a good way. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>This Nicky’s wearing a brown button up with little yellow fruit motifs scattered on it, plus a pair of plain brown trousers. There’s a pair of equally brown loafers on his feet. He’s got some ridiculous brown tweed jacket draped over his arms. It even has </span>
  <em>
    <span>elbow patches</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Comfort over style. That’s definitely something His Nicky would wear (and for </span>
  <em>
    <span>once </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s overjoyed with plain). Similarly, his hair is long enough to flop in his eyes too. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully this Nicky is clean-shaven. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s still wary and on edge from the night before last. When Joe remains silent and aloof, this Nicky frowns (yep, same frown too) and hovers worriedly at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hayati, what’s wrong?” His nose scrunches up, “Have you been smoking? I thought we agreed to quit ages ago!”  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe, too keyed up for anything other than a literal word vomit, blurts, “What colour is our living room in our house in Malta?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>This Nicky blinks. “What--”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our living room! The colour on the walls!” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okaaaay…” Nicky calmly sits down on the vacant stool next to him. He neatly folds his jacket over the back before turning to give Joe his undivided attention. “It's paisley wallpaper, not paint. And it’s your favourite shade of blue. Like the Mediterranean on a clear day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did we name the plants?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Birta the pothos,” he says without hesitation. “You thought you killed her but she’s taken over the bathroom window.” Nicky (because it really </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nicky) just chuckles. He has the patience of a saint. Joe is so overcome with emotion he could cry. He sniffles a little bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a silky strand of Nicky’s hair falling into his face. He wants so much to tuck it behind his ear...</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daphne the fig tree,” Nicky continues in that soft voice of his. He rests an elbow on the bar top and lets his chin fall onto his palm. “She hates being pruned but after she took out the power lines I made you get the ladder and do it.” Now he’s got Joe smiling fondly at the memory. “Let’s see, oh yes! Zahrah is our Everlasting bush. You take clippings of her and keep them above the kitchen sink. And Vasily is our bed of basil in the backyard. It was a house-warming gift from Booker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe nods, “He was still so new and didn’t know if he could trust us. Yet, he wanted to get us something anyways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s our Booker,” Nicky says. His face shifts into one of silent yearning. His eyes are memorizing Joe’s face, mapping it tenderly because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s been without Joe for three months</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He looks like he wants to take Joe’s hand in his but they </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>because they’re too out in the open here at this bar. Merciful Allah, how did Joe ever confuse this sweet soft man with that--that </span>
  <em>
    <span>psycho?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Every cell in Joe’s body is screaming. He relents (</span>
  <em>
    <span>FUCK IT</span>
  </em>
  <span>) and grabs the hand hiding underneath the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky glances nervously around the bar, but it’s dark and crowded enough that no one pays them any attention. They share secret smiles and let their fingers twine together. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mio amore... What has gotten into you?” He’s eyeballing the alcohol.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe stage whispers, “Oh, habibi, do I have a story for you! It’s about the worst Tuesday in history.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s all folks!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: drugs are bad, m'kay? Don't do drugs and commit murder, kids :)</p><p>The song Joe and Primo are listening to in the car is "Ma Che Freddo Fa" by Nada Malanima. It was a popular song in Italy in '69. The title comes from Bishop Brigg's "Baby" which is a song about loving a fucked up bad boy.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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